**The Secret of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past**
Stephen returned home exhausted after his shift. The summer heat made his construction job even tougher, but he couldn’t rely on his mum forever. One more year at university, then a proper job in his field, and soon he’d marry Emily, the love of his life.
“Mum, let’s go to the countryside this weekend,” he suggested over dinner, pushing his plate aside. “Fresh air, maybe a bit of fishing.”
“I was just about to say the same, love,” replied Margaret, setting down his tea. “Thought you might be too worn out. Maybe we should sell the cottage? It’s falling apart without anyone there. We haven’t been since your dad passed. If you don’t want it, the money could go toward the wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a place just outside Manchester,” Stephen nodded. “I’m fine with selling. Let’s head over Friday evening.”
“And bring Emily,” Margaret added brightly.
Stephen had spent every summer in that cottage as a boy. After his grandma died, his parents had kept up visits, even tried gardening. But once his father was gone, his mum let the place go.
On Friday, they crowded onto a stuffy bus—Stephen by the window, Emily asleep on his shoulder. The trip was only forty minutes, but the heat made it drag. Finally, the bus groaned to a halt at the edge of the village. Passengers grabbed their bags, eager to escape the stifling air. Stephen jumped down the steps, inhaling the warm scent of earth and grass.
“Oh, your shirt’s soaked,” Emily murmured, brushing his arm.
“It’s fine,” he grinned. “We’ll drop our things and head to the river.”
They walked through the village, ignoring curious glances. The locals nodded politely but didn’t pry—country manners. Stephen carried their supplies, enjoying the open air after the bus.
The cottage garden was overgrown with weeds and nettles. “Watch your step,” Margaret warned. Emily yelped and clung to Stephen as the rusted lock gave way. Inside, the cool, dusty stillness made them pause.
“Like we never left,” Margaret whispered, touching the wall.
Stephen recognized everything—the faded photos, the magazine cutouts he’d taped up as a boy, the short lace curtains. Iron beds stood piled with knitted blankets, and in the middle of the room, a table covered in worn blue oilcloth.
“It’s cosy,” Emily said. “Sure you want to sell?”
“I’ll unpack,” Margaret said briskly. “Stephen, fetch some firewood from the shed. Emily, have a look around.”
Soon the cottage came alive—the crackle of the fire, the smell of tea and biscuits. The old electric stove whirred to life. Stephen hauled water from the well; Margaret filled the kettle. When the heat grew stifling, they flung the windows open. Stephen and Emily slipped off to the river.
That night, the house groaned and creaked as if mourning its years alone. By morning, Margaret had breakfast ready and sent the two up to the attic to sort through dusty boxes while she tackled the wardrobes.
“Ugh, so many cobwebs!” Emily ducked under the low beams, pressing close to Stephen. Forgotten linens hung from ropes, yellowed with age. Most of it was rubbish—until Emily spotted a loose sheet of paper.
“Stephen, come here!” she called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud:
*”Dear Robert, what happened? You promised to come back for me after speaking to your parents. It’s been a month without a word. I’m beside myself. I wanted to tell you in person, but perhaps this will hurry you—I’m expecting a baby. If only Mum were here—she’d know what to do. But Auntie… I’m not sure she’ll welcome me once she notices. Please, come soon…”*
The rest was filled with longing, love, and fear. At the bottom, the name *Helen*.
“What’s the fuss?” Stephen shrugged. “Just an old letter.”
“You don’t get it,” Emily sighed. “This isn’t *just* any letter. Your name is Stephen Robert Davies, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” He frowned, not following.
“And this is addressed to *Robert*. See?” Her voice sharpened.
“Okay… Maybe Mum knows.” He moved to leave.
“Wait!” Emily grabbed his arm. “The letter’s from Helen—not your mum. Why was it hidden in a magazine up here? Why keep it?”
“Alright, detective,” he smirked. “How do we find out who wrote it?”
“Wish your gran were here,” Emily muttered. “She’d know. Any older folks left in the village?”
“Dunno. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, clattering downstairs.
“What?” Margaret sneezed through a cloud of dust, surrounded by stacks of linens.
“Any old-timers still around?”
“Old Mrs. Norris, maybe. Why?” She eyed them suspiciously.
“Just curious about family history. Where’s she live?”
“Last house at the end of the lane. Distant cousin of your gran’s. Where are you off to?”
“The river!” Stephen called back, tugging Emily outside.
The cottage sagged under ivy and weeds. “This the place?” Emily hesitated.
The door creaked open before they could knock. “You lost?” An old woman in a white shawl squinted at them.
“Mrs. Norris?” Stephen stepped forward. “I’m Stephen Davies. Robert and Margaret’s son.”
She studied him, then nodded. “Come in, then. Kettle’s on.”
The tiny cottage was spotless. “Expecting cobwebs?” she chuckled. “Still tidy while I can be. Out with it—why’re you here?”
Emily showed her the letter, reading it aloud. The longer she spoke, the heavier the silence grew.
Mrs. Norris sighed. “Margaret’s not with you, so she doesn’t know. Good.”
She took her time, testing their patience, then began: “Margaret was a beauty. Lads chased her, but she only had eyes for your dad. He went off to the Army, and she waited. I asked, ‘Does Robert write?’ She’d laugh: ‘Where’s he going?’ When he came back, they married within a month—whole village celebrated.”
She paused, studying Emily. “You’re pretty too. Nice to see young love.”
“After the wedding, they moved to the city. Margaret became an accountant; your dad worked at the factory, studied nights. Weekends, they’d visit. I remember—autumn, it was. Your gran was knitting by the window when she saw a young girl trudging up, pregnant, with a bag. Knew straight off: she was here for Robert.”
“Gran ran out, told her, ‘Robert’s gone, married now, his wife’s expecting—best be off.’ Girl said she’d nowhere to go, her aunt had thrown her out. Hard as she was, your gran took pity. Brought her to me, said to tell folks she was my cousin. Girl went into labour right there. Ambulance took her and the baby—a little girl—away. Never saw her again. Told the village she was my kin. Later, your dad confessed—didn’t think Margaret would wait, got tangled up, made promises he broke. Saw Margaret again and forgot the other. Next spring, Margaret had you.”
She fell silent. “Margaret still doesn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You love her?” She nodded at Emily.
“More than anything,” Stephen said.
“And the letter?” Emily pressed.
“Your gran read it—never gave it to Robert. Hid it, God knows why.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Norris,” Emily said softly, standing. “We should go.”
“Need water or firewood?” Stephen offered.
“No. I’ve enough. Glad you came. Tell Margaret to visit. Might be the last time.”
“So your dad wronged that girl,” Emily mused as they walked.
“Probably married now,” Stephen said lightly.
Emily stopped. “What?” he frowned.
She stared at him oddly. “Doesn’t any of this bother you?”
“It *does*, but it’s ancient history. Mrs. Norris is a hundred—could’ve imagined it.”
Emily’s voice dropped. “My mum’s name is Helen.”
“So? Loads of Helens. Wait—you think… No, that’s mad.”
She said nothing.
“You’re saying *you’re* that baby? That we’re—?” He shook his head. “Odds are minuscule. Even if Helen stayed in our city, it’s one in a million. Ridiculous.”
“What if Mum *is* that Helen? She married my dad—”
“Emily, *listen* to yourself!” He gripped her shoulders. “I love you. Even if it’s true, I couldn’t see you as a sister. Could you stop loving me? Imagine us married to others, visiting like strangers—*no*.”
She searched hisThey kept their secret, but sometimes Stephen would catch Emily staring at old family photos, her fingers tracing the edges of faces long gone, and in those quiet moments, the past felt closer than either of them dared to admit.
